


Notches

by anonorama



Category: Sofia the First (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, Gen, angst and such, dub-con, hugo has a sex obsession, sofia is not really in it that much, there's nothing explicit but basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonorama/pseuds/anonorama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows it's wrong, but it makes him hurt less, and by this point he just can't stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notches

**Author's Note:**

> A silly thought that accidentally was left to run wild, also an excuse to write about this guy because everyone loves him, apparently.

//

 

Hugo is fourteen his first time.

She's a servant for the castle - very young, very pretty - and he can't say no to her, to her delicate voice, to her gentle hands that touch and explore and send sensations he didn't think he could feel shooting through his nerves, erasing his sense of judgement to any thought other than _yes, now, please_.

He doesn't know what he's doing - barely understands the mechanics of it - and in no way comprehends the severity of their actions, that the repercussions could last for longer than these few heated hours together, that four years from now he would wish (but not really) that he didn't and regret (he hates that word) his actions.

It's clumsy and slow and driven by crazy, adolescent hormones, but it feels damn good, incredible, better then he ever could have imagined was possible.

He's stuttering and shivering and making a fool of himself (in hindsight he considers it the most embarrassing moment of his life - two minutes, _really?_ ), his face flushed and voice tremulous (every easy lay he's ever had).

But she guides him through it - puts up with him - encourages him, assures him they're doing nothing wrong, it's all a fun game. Her voice is calming, trustworthy, empty of the _lies_ and _deceit_ he doesn't know lie under it - only sweet-as-honey words and intoxicating kisses, feather-soft murmurs into the back of his neck, big blue eyes and promises she swears she'll never break.

He doesn't really believe her, but it feels too good to care.

He forgets about the consequences, about what could inevitably follow, forgets rational thinking, forgets logic and emotion and love, only action and reaction in the _here and now_.

Several months later she's dismissed as a servant after becoming pregnant.

He doesn't connect the events until much later.

 

..

 

He's fifteen and obsessed with the feeling.

Amusement is a precious resource for him. Excitement, in his kingdom, is a rarity, and events of interest are few and far between.

The only thing available to entertain him is, really, himself.

(Fingers ghost down south, hesitant touches trying to recreate that intense feeling, heart throttling his throat with fear that someone would find out - )

He turns to his body to occupy his attention, lengthy periods of time spent alone in his room, his only company quickly used-up disposable cloths (hide the evidence) and memories of whatever maiden caught his gaze that day.

(Trying to imagine how they'd feel under him, hear those pretty little voices gasp and cry his name, delicate hands and faces...)

His head turns with the passing of an attractive female, his thoughts clouded with ideas that thrill him and disgust him at the same time.

He brags about his experiences (the one night stand with the castle maid) and techniques (half-delusional fantasies he's too nervous to indulge), but anything can sound convicting if you know how to say it (and if the audience is a group of easily-impressed teenage males).

They're eating out of his hand, he's amazed at how easily he can fabricate stories and make them do and believe whatever he says - he discovers his ability to win people over. 

Not just his blindly loyal followers - _anyone_.

He's naturally charismatic, and his good looks don't help, and he can't believe how he can win over everyone, so _easily_ , with a few choice words and a charming smile until they're swooning and nearly slavering at his feet.

(Until it _doesn't_ , and that's what pisses him off, because in a world where you're always getting what you want, denial isn't just a disappointment, it's an obstacle to get around, an _irritation_ because there's no way - NO way someone could say no to YOU.)

It doesn't take long until he starts plotting how to put this ability to good use.

 

..

 

He's sixteen and it takes _days_ of working up his nerves, practicing in the mirror, memorizing what to say, rehearsing over and over alone in the stables until it's drilled into his brain so deeply he could probably court one of the horses, should he so want to, but he has bigger prizes on his mind.

Why this has become so important to him, he's not really sure. It hurts him to think about it, because it feels wrong, deep down, but he's fixated on his desires and he'll do anything - _anything_ to meet those ends.

(He just wants to experience that feeling again, the intense isolation and emotion with another person, he wants _so badly_ to feel wanted by someone else.)

He finally finds the courage to invite a princess from school to stay the night at his castle.

Everything is planned perfectly, though with the king and queen (he already hates referring to them as his parents) around less and less, discovery is less of an issue.

He's manipulative, though he wouldn't call himself that. He's paid attention, knows just what to say, how to act, to make himself charmingly irresistable.

She doesn't refuse. He makes sure she'll be back.

 

..

 

Hugo turns seventeen and the collection of notches on his bedpost grows every week. 

He starts forgetting names, remembering only pros and cons, vague faces and bodies that blend together in his memories.

_Excellent kisser. Regretfully unoriginal in bed._

_Knows all the right places to bite, sucks with using her hands._

_AMAZING blowjobs. Shame she's such a bitch._  

He's a stud, and he knows it. And God knows that they do, too, but He probably doesn't approve.

Hugo doesn't particularly care.

(By now he knows what his unrestrained exploits could lead to, and it scares the shit out of him, but it feels too - damn - _good_ to even consider stopping - which is why he has to keep track of each of them, make sure it doesn't happen again because there's no way he could live with himself if it did.) 

He has someone to lay every day of the week, should he so particularly care, and he just - can't - stop.

 

..

 

At eighteen there's only one he has eyes for. The only one who's eluded him so far.

He hates Sofia, really. Absolutely despises her.

(Isn't too scared to approach her, isn't berating himself over the thought of ruining something so perfect, so pure.)

He never forgave her for beating him in the race, so very long ago, and that personality, that goddamn cheerfulness and _kindness_ , he can't stand it. It's sickening, really.

But in eight years, she's managed to develop hell of a figure. The fact that she doesn't even realize it makes her more desirable, and as far as Hugo knows, she's never been taken.

(Unless she's gotten it on with her goddamn brother. He's the only one who could have. Hugo always thought he was fucked in the head anyway, the asshole.)

She'd be at the stables after school, she always is, everyday. Predictable bitch.

He leans in the doorway, suave levels on maximum, hair primped and coiffed perfectly to look casually swept. Clothes rumpled slightly, sleeves rolled up to elbows.

The look that's enticed every other girl in the school into his bed.

"Practice went well?" He feigns some semblance of interest, adds a slight provaccative lilt to his voice. He's pleased everyday at the tone it deepened into, smooth and ranged, a voice that can make the most innocuous statement dirty.

She turns quickly, stumbles slightly, (damn those tits) obviously very surprised to see him. She works herself into her typical gagworthy cheeriness, launches into a self-propelled discussion that Hugo is happy he can pay little attention to.

"Everything's going so _well_ , the team's been doing great, we're all practicing our hardest-"

He prides himself on his mastery of easy, instinctive replies to appear like he cares.

"Sounds great. Good for you guys."

(As if he gave the slightest of fucks.) 

The conversation lulls, threatens awkwardness, and right before she's about to dismiss herself he springs the question.

"Sofia, are you a virgin?"

She's caught immefiately offguard, cheeks reddening, stuttering, and the sight pleases Hugo. He'd long ago abandoned any embarrassment over discussing these matters, and watching her response is titillating.

"...w-well. Y-yes, I am."

(He hates himself.)

"...I mean, why wouldn't I be?" she continues, looking nervous and flushed. "Why should you care?"

"Just curious," he replies casually. "You seemed the type."

He gives her a moment to consider, and he's about to continue when she nervously speaks up.

"I mean, have you..." she falters, steels herself. "Have you ever... m-made love?" 

He considers his response.

"...No, I haven't."

She stares in surprise. "But you're not..."

"A virgin? No. Hell no." He scoffs. "I've fucked so many people I've lost track."

Which isn't true. He counted the sixty-four notches on his bedpost last night.

"But that's all it's ever been. Just fucking."

No love involved. He stopped believing in love a long time ago. The only thing he believes in are emotions, raw and instinctive, and the actions made off them.

If love was real, it's not something that can be made.

(Or he would have done it already.)

The idea is so ridiculous and whimsical Hugo is half-tempted to leave in disgust.

But he hasn't had a virgin in ages, and he needs something malleable.

Plus those tits. Damn.

"That's... too bad," Sofia says carefully, looking unsure as Hugo knew she would.

"You can always teach an old horse new tricks, though."

And there's that look - dawning realization, nervousness, conflict, curiosity, arousal.

He has her hooked, and all he needs is to reel her in.

(The perverse desire to be the one that destroys that purity, to mark up the paper with ugly black ink, sheep piss on fresh snow, _ruining_ something perfect and beautiful)

"My place tonight?" And, when she hesitates - "We don't need to do anything, you know. If you just want to stop by."

She's caught. 

_Damn, he's good._

 

.....

 

Afterwards he can sense that she wants to talk - discuss her feelings or some shit - but he's never been one to waste words if he's not trying to get what he wants, so he makes it clear that nothing more is to be said.

He lays in silence. Staring. Trying not to think. Only focus on emotions.

Try not to remember the other sixty-four times. Focus on the here and now.

Normally it's easy for him to forget about everything afterwards, easy to lose himself in the lingering post-coital bliss, revel in just how fucking fantastic he is.

But there's something _there_ , now, something nagging and distracting him, something suspiciously like -

Guilt?

Hugo remembers four years ago.

The morning after That Night when he violently realized the gravity of what happened, panicked at the potential repercussions-

and henceforth resolved never to feel guilty about anything again.

He doesn't even know her fucking _name_.

(Guilt breeds regret.)

Next to him, Sofia sleeps, lying there, unknown to the sixty-four times that preceded her, a broken bird, something perfect but ruined.

(Regret leads to remorse.)

Somewhere out there is a girl, someone who made some bad decisions but certainly nothing to deserve -

To deserve _him_? To deserve what happened to her? Did he derserve to be used and abused and left to figure out what it meant on his own, left desperate for the feeling of some semblance of affection, so badly craving the something more than the sordid trysts and heavy one-night stands?

He leans to her, brushes a kiss over her forehead, mumbles a shaky apology that she'll never hear.

(Remorse leads to _pain_.)

He's torn with the knowledge that he's just as bad, that fours years ago it was him sleeping so soundly, so unknowing and delicately broken.

_Sixty-four_ , he thinks dully.

He slides from his bed, hand instinctively moving toward the drawer where he knows the penknife is, considering and hesitating for a fraction of a moment.

Does she deserve it? Probably not.

But no one ever really gets what they deserve.

(And she doesn't deserve him.)

He carves her notch.

_Sixty-five._

For a virgin, she was a damn good kisser, he'll give her that.

 

//


End file.
